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For a long time, I didn’t really understand art.
I didn’t grow up thinking I would become an artist, and I never went to art school.
But I remember visiting a neighbour whose walls were covered with paintings. I could sit there for what felt like hours, imagining the places, the people, and everything that might exist beyond the frame.
I want to create work that gives someone a reason to stop for a moment. To look a little longer. To remember something, imagine something, or simply feel something they cannot quite explain.
I didn’t plan to become an artist.
My education was not in painting, and I never followed the traditional path of art school or formal artistic training.
For a long time, I thought creativity could be something you enjoyed, but not necessarily something you were allowed to build a life around.
That began to change after I immigrated to Canada.
Moving to a new country opened more than a new geographical horizon for me. It changed the way I thought about what a person is allowed to become.
Gradually, I gave myself permission to take painting seriously.
One of the paintings that made this especially clear to me was “From Pain to Beauty.”
I created it during a difficult time for our family, carrying fear, uncertainty, and gratitude all at once. Painting gave those feelings somewhere to go.
By the time the work was finished, something that had felt chaotic had become quieter and more understandable.
A painting can hold much more than an image — it can hold part of a life.
My paintings usually begin with something I notice in real life.
Sometimes I find it while travelling — a coastline, a lighthouse, birds above the water, or a landscape that feels completely different from home.
But inspiration does not have to come from somewhere far away. It can begin on an ordinary walk.
I often take photographs and short videos of changing skies, fields, flowers, water, birds, unusual light, or a small detail I want to remember.
Later, in the studio, I return to those images. But I am not trying to reproduce the photograph exactly.
By the time I return to the studio, memory has already changed what I saw. Some details disappear, others become more important, and colours begin to shift.
The finished painting lives somewhere between observation, memory, and imagination.
Painting has changed the way I move through everyday life.
I notice more now — the shape of clouds, the colour of the horizon before rain, birds sitting along a wire, the way flowers change when the light moves across them.
Inspiration does not always arrive dramatically. Very often, it is already around us.
We just have to notice it.
When someone chooses one of my original paintings, I think about the fact that the work is leaving my studio and beginning a completely different life.
It may become part of everyday mornings, family dinners, celebrations, quiet evenings, moves to new houses, and years of memories.
And perhaps, one day, a painting will be passed from one generation to another — not simply because it is art, but because it has become part of the family’s story.
